Just Guess the Bloody Song, Arthur
by KeepCalmAndKeepWriting
Summary: Eames proceeds to irritate Arthur by playing him 'specially selected' songs from his IPod. Arthur can't help but notice the fact that Eames might be trying to tell him something through the song choice...


**(Ah- so yes, I may be working my arse off so to speak and have had little time for ANYTHING else, but I wrote this for my friend for Christmas and thought I might as well let you have it... Just to let you know I'm still alive and all that ;)**

**(P.S Forgive me for indulging yet again in my OTP and the Wonderful World of Angst. I've never done a 'song-fic' before, but I recommend you listen to the ones mentioned if you have the time, not only because they are BLOODY BRILLIANT but also the story might make a little more sense...)**

**(And of course, reviews/comments are always MORE than welcome- Thank-you for all the ones so far :)**

**Hope you like it!**

Arthur hated music.

Well, that wasn't strictly true, he did have _some_ appreciation of the skill and dedication of classical performers, and there were certainly a select few pop songs he actually considered he liked. He even accepted the fact that there were certain situations when music was practically necessary- parties for one, Nightclubs, Weddings, and, obviously, to serve as a Kick when leaving the dream state. Hell- Arthur could even play the fucking _guitar_, and pretty well, although he'd never admit it.

No- he didn't hate _music_ specifically.

He just hated the fact Eames loved it so much.

Eames was a very noisy person generally. He chatted about nonsensical, irrelevant things, rambling on in his charming British accent about something that Arthur could have easily explained in a few, clipped words. But asides from being the least concise person Arthur knew, Eames was unfortunately good at whistling. And humming. That and the fact he seemingly had one soul ambition in life- to drive Arthur to an early grave through sheer irritation- was not a good combination.

They were on another job. Of course. Cobb, unable to resist the temptation of dream-sharing, had left Phillipa and James in the capable hands of his sister- and had called London for their base. Arthur actually quite liked London, and no doubt would like it more if Eames didn't insist on trying to take him to all these "delightful little places" he knew about.

Cobb had resolutely refused to involve Ariadne again, as reports from Miles said she had more than struggled afterwards- but now was finally happy and doing well. No one objected to the lack of Architect, they all felt slightly guilty about having left Ariadne to fend for herself anyway. Arthur, without complaint, quietly added the task of designing the level to his other jobs. The extra workload however, meant the amount of time spent sleeping and eating ("and breathing," Eames had told him sarcastically) had had to be significantly cut back- which made Arthur hardly the most relaxed and easy going of people at the best of times. Eames did not help the situation.

They were working in a large attic space at the top of an abandoned building in the inner city. It was practically bare, asides the three desks, various computing equipment, and 3 loungers. It was early afternoon and light lit up the dusty floor, but Arthur was already fighting back a yawn, closing his strained eyes briefly. 2 hours sleep the night before could surely not be healthy. A movement to his left caught him off guard, and he glanced up.

"Arthur- are you alright?" Cobb asked quietly, looking down at Arthur's tried appearance with concern.

"Yeah, yeah, just- well, you know..." Arthur swore internally at his weak response, and fought of another yawn.

"You should get some rest, you can't work like this- take a nap," suggested Cobb, gesturing to the nearest lounger.

Arthur stared at him for a brief moment eyes narrowed, then let his gaze travel across the room to land pointedly on Eames' back, who was standing at the coffee machine, humming merrily. He turned back to Cobb, eyebrow raised, as if that explained everything. Cobb sighed. No way in hell would Arthur do something as reasonable as sleep if it meant he would be left vulnerable when Eames was present.

"Fine- work yourself to death then," grumbled Cobb, dragging a hand through his hair, frowning. Arthur's relationship with Eames, was, for the most part, highly entertaining, but sometimes he thought they took the 'hate' part of their love/hate relationship too far.

"Either way, I'm going out to meet Robinson," Cobb told him firmly, slipping his gun into the waistband of his trousers.

"I'll come with you-" was Arthur's immediate response, and he reached for his own gun.

"No. You won't- not in your condition," Arthur rolled his eyes, "seriously Arthur- Robinson is hardly to be trusted, and anything could happen if you're not on full alert. Besides, someone needs to keep an eyes on _him_," Cobb gestured to Eames, who was now carefully constructing a tower of Styrofoam coffee cups.

Arthur stared at him. "Cobb, don't leave alone me with him. Not today. I can't take it," his voice flat and icy.

"Ouch Arthur, that hurt," came Eames' voice from the other side of the room his tone one of mock offence. Clearly, he had been listening in on their entire conversation.

"Oh for fuck's sake," muttered Cobb, glowering between his two co-workers who were often more immature than his own children despite the fact they each owned over a dozen guns, "I've had it with you two- sort whatever your problem is with each other so we can finish the bloody job. I'll be back in an hour." And with that, he strode across the attic space, and slammed the door behind him with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

Arthur groaned, and dropped his head in his hands.

"I think Cobb is cross with us, darling," Eames told him sombrely from besides the coffee machine, but Arthur could hear the smile behind his words, and the endearment did _nothing_ to improve his mood. He closed his eyes.

There was a brief pause. And when Eames' voice came again, it was so much closer, from right in front of his desk, that Arthur couldn't help but jump a little.

"I don't know why you pretend to dislike me so much Arthur. I don't bite, you know that, well- _technically _speaking you don't, but I can assure you that even-" his mouth curved into the flirtatious smirk that Arthur knew all too well.

"Eames. Go. Away." Arthur managed through clenched teeth.

Eames placed the steaming coffee cup on Arthur's desk. Arthur blinked.

"Will do pet," Eames murmured fondly, and made his way back to his desk.

* * *

><p>Arthur was more than a little baffled by this new, <em>considerate<em> version of Eames, who spoke only to ask reasonable and work related questions. Without a single sexual innuendo. Not one.

Arthur was practically concerned when Eames got up to get Arthur _another_ cup of coffee. Arthur muttered a muffled 'thanks' and took the cup from Eames' hand.

"S'alright, you're no fun when you're all tired anyway," Eames told him honestly, grinning as Arthur's expression hardened.

"You're pumping me with caffeine so that you can get a better reaction when you start to be irritating again?" Arthur asked incredulous.

"Oh- you make me sound so heartless- but, yes, when you put it like that- that is the general idea-"

Eames shut up when Arthur threw a stapler at him.

"Shit! Arthur, violence is _not_ the way to solve disputes, I though you of all people would know that..." Eames muttered, clutching his side where the stapler had hit, a wounded expression on his face.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He couldn't decide if Eames was being ironic or not, seeing as his personal body count in the real world was at least 70. In the dream-state- well, including himself, he had lost count a long time ago.

"Force is the only answer when it comes to _you,_ Mr. Eames," Arthur told him coldly, reaching for the hole-punch.

Eames dodged Arthur's throw neatly, a broad beam growing across his face- "Arthur- you did _not_ just say that, you could _not_ have just said that, where is my totem? I must be dreaming-" And the glint in his eyes, and the wicked grin on his face told Arthur _exactly _how Eames had interpreted that particular, innocent comment.

Arthur allowed himself a smile of satisfaction when his rock paperweight hit Eames squarely in the groin.

* * *

><p>"I tell you what Arthur, I think we need to calm down a little," Eames told him smugly a while later, spinning round in his swivel chair to face him. "How about some relaxing music?"<p>

"You've got to be kidding me," Arthur said monotonously.

"No, actually, I'm not- c'mon Arthur, you need to loosen up a little darling, you're so tense- just being in the same _room_ as you is suffocating," Eames pouted childishly. Arthur really shouldn't find that attractive.

"Feel free to leave at any time."

"Be careful what you wish for, I might just one day take you up on that..." Eames cautioned, rifling through his pockets, searching for an IPod.

He looked up gleefully when he found it, holding it up- but Arthur was sitting perfectly still with his eyes clenched close, and for one horrible second, Eames' thought he was in pain.

"Arthur? What are you doing?" he asked warily.

Arthur opened his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched, in the merest suggestion of a smile.

"Wishing," he said coolly.

"Oh ha, ha, very funny," Eames scoffed, pulling out the portable IPod dock from his desk drawer, and setting in on the worktop. "Now- if you'd stop being such a wisecrack- I'm going to choose a decent song..."

Arthur snorted inelegantly, because he was pretty sure _his_ definition of decent music did not correlate with Eames'. Eames ignored him, nimble fingers spinning on the touch scroll down on the IPod.

"Aha! I think _this _one is quite suitable..." Eames muttered with a smile, and pressed the play button confidently, slouching back in his chair.

When Eames lazily tapped his thigh with his pen in _perfect_ time with the opening 5 drum beats of the song, Arthur groaned in exasperation. Eames was no doubt playing his favourite playlist and if he knew the fucking instrumental-

"_I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my miiind"_

_-_he would know all the words too.

Eames wasn't a bad singer. In fact, he was really rather good, but Hell would have to freeze over before Arthur admitted that. His voice was low and rough, while managing to keep in tune, and he eyed Arthur with some intense, unnameable expression throughout the entire first verse.

Arthur squirmed internally under his gaze, and was slightly concerned that Eames was going to notice the red flush creeping up his neck when the chorus arrived, and Eames closed his eyes grinning, leaning back and spinning round on the chair-

"_Does that make me craaazyy-"_

"Eames- don't make _me_ shoot you." Arthur told him, quietly, and Eames immediately silenced, looking across at Arthur mournfully.

He knew Eames was just playing around with him, but for a second Arthur felt a brief curl of _guilt_ in the pit of his stomach, because Eames was quite clearly enjoying singing along, and why did he have to look so much like some fucking lost _puppy?_

But then Eames' expression faded into a wicked smile, and Arthur knew in an instant that Eames has no intention of wanting to stay alive.

"I'd like to see you try," he says simply, and spun languidly around on his chair still tapping in time to the song.

Arthur saw red for a split second- before regaining his composure. Why did he let Eames get to him in this way?

Eames spun back around to face him- making pointed eye contact, before grinning and starting to sing again-

"_Come on now, who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you think you are,  
>Ha ha ha bless your soul<br>You really think you're in control"_

Arthur glared at him, and Eames chuckled, playing the drum backing piece on his desk enthusiastically.

"

Well," he said almost conversationally as if it wasn't in time with the fucking music.

" _I think you're crazy  
>I think you're crazy<br>I think you're crazy  
>Just like meeee"<em>

And he swivelled his hands around to point at his chest, a lazy smirk playing on those ridiculously attractive lips. Arthur raised his hands to point at Eames as well- then mimed firing an AK 47 at his head.

Eames laughed, and Arthur tried not to smile, because, hell, he was certainly annoying, but that laugh was infectious.

"Do you know it yet?" Eames asked, when he'd finally stopped grinning.

"Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, musical collaboration between Danger Mouse and Cee Lo Green, released in 2006- stayed at #1 for 9 weeks," Arthur replied smoothly, and took some satisfaction in the way Eames' chair spin slipped as he briefly lost his footing in his surprise.

He stared at Arthur for a few seconds, as though trying to figure him out, then shook his head in mock exasperation, and leant over to the IPod to choose another song, muttering something about "fucking...bloody...research."

Arthur smiled into his hand.

Eames suddenly chuckled loudly, and Arthur looked up- guessing he might have been caught. Eames' eyes were glued to the small screen however, and with a triumphant smile, he pressed the Play button and leant back, grinning broadly.

This was not going to be good.

Within the first five seconds, Arthur shook his head disdainfully. Eames' grin grew only larger. Arthur knew this song. Jeez- you'd have to be bloody _deaf_ _not_ to know this particular song. It had been played in _every single fucking shop_ on the entire planet a few years ago. Continuously. At first- Arthur had quite liked it, but eventually, the constant repetition had morphed the tune into something that now resembled nothing more than a monotonous, uninspiring beat.

"Do you get it? 'American Boy'? And you're American?" asked Eames, delightedly, "And a boy? Well- you'd probably prefer to be a man- but I don't think it would fit with the lyrics-"

"I am truly inspired Eames- your intelligence, once again, defies reason," Arthur interrupted, voice thick with sarcasm, leaning back in his own chair.

"Now really Arthur do you think being all patronising is going to help your situation, hmm, seeing as I'm in charge of the music?"

"Maybe not- but a bullet to the brain might..." Arthur muttered darkly under his breath, and Eames wisely pretended not to hear.

"_Take me on a trip I'd like to go some daaay, Take me to New York I'd love- _What's that face for?"

Arthur was contorting his expression in an effort not to laugh- because Eames was _surely_ not trying to sing soprano.

"Try not to put me off so much, darling- I rather like this next verse..." Eames said with an air of disdain, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"_He said, Hey Sister. It's really really nice to meet ya." _Arthur scoffed as the ridiculously high voice that had no place issuing from Eames started up again.

" _I just met this 5 foot _**11 **_guy who's just my type." _And Eames grinned like he was some sort of genius. Arthur frowned. The words said 5'7'', after listening to it a bloody 1,000 times, even _he_ knew that. He, Arthur, was 5'11''.

_..."like the way he's speaking, his confidence is peaking. Don't like his baggy jeans but I _**will **_like what's underneath them._ " And now Eames smile was _definitely_ meant to be seductive. Arthur sighed, because, really, were they not older than 16?

Eames had forgotten the next few lines, so _la-_ed tunefully, until-

_..."I'll show you to my __**bedroom**__ .I'm liking this American Boy. American Boy." _ The emphasis was quite clear, as Eames intended it to be.

"Eames-" Arthur warned, because he really _did_ have quite a lot of work to do, and as entertaining as it was watching Eames, he didn't feel like innuendoes and sexual references at 3:30pm in the afternoon. He felt like more coffee. He got up to get some more.

"_Wait_ darling-" Eames instantly protested, "just till the end of this song, then I'll promise you can get back to your exciting research- promise," he pleaded.

"I'm getting coffee," Arthur shot back, crossing the room swiftly, ignoring the imploring look in Eames' eyes.

"Oh- that's alright then," he sounded annoyingly smug.

"_Let's go shopping baby then we'll go to a Café... Let's go on the subway-" _His voice drifted across the room, slightly quieter than before, to where Arthur stood patiently by the coffee machine. A sudden, unexpected image sprung to mind- of him and Eames sitting outside a fucking _cafe_ of all places, in the middle of New York. Just talking, drinking coffee and soaking up the sun. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant image, just a little unsettling. Arthur shook his head to try and clear it.

"_Dress in all your __**fancy clothes**__," _Eames continued, a little louder than before- grinning from ear to ear when Arthur turned to glare at him.

"_Sneaker's looking da...da-da I'm lovin those da-daa,"_ It appeared that Eames' memory was starting to fail him.

"_Walkin' that walk. Talk that slick talk-" _Arthur continued automatically under his breath, filling in where Eames had stopped. He froze. Because he had not just _sang_ in front of Eames. Stupid fucking brain with too darn good a memory.

"Oh _Arthur!" _Eames crowed, and Arthur punched himself internally."We are going to have _words_ later- just let me do the rap-"

Despite himself Arthur raised an eyebrow- because Eames rapping? He watched as Eames took an exaggerated deep breath as Estelle sang through the chorus, eyes closed briefly, hands poised. What the fuc-?

"_Who killin em in the U.K. Everybody gonna to say YOU K, reluctantly, cuz most of this press don't fuck wit me."_ Arthur tried to ignore the way 'fuck' sounded so _sinfully_ attractive warped by the British accent.

"_Estelle once said to me, cool down, down. Don't act a fool now, now. __**I always**__ act a fool oww, oww_."

"You're not wrong about that," Arthur interrupted dryly, setting about organising the already tidy coffee cups. Eames ignored him.

"_Aint nothing new now now. He crazy, I know what ya thinkin. Ribena I know what you're drinkin. Rap singer. Chain Blinger. Holla at the next chick soon as you're blinkin_."

Arthur watched Eames' hands in slight fascination out of the corner of his eye. Because, okay, he'd always considered rapper's hand gestures to be something rather pointless, but _now. _Well, they seemed to make more sense when it was Eames twisting and flicking his fingers impossibly quickly in time with the steady stream of words, grinning when he caught Arthur looking.

"_What's you're persona. about this Americana. Brama, Am I shallow, cuz all my clothes __**designer**_." The words tumbled from Eames mouth in an orderly chaos- somehow managing to stay to the beat, hard, fast and devoid of feeling, yet still managing to put emphasis on the fact Arthur happened to be dressed head to toe in Armani.

" _Dressed smart like a London Bloke. Before he speak his suit bespoke. And you thought he was__** cute**__ before_," Eames offered him a wicked smile, "_Look at this __**P Coat**__ tell me he's broke_," and gestured to Arthur's coat draped across the back of a chair. Arthur cursed the unfair accuracy of the lyrics, knowing Eames had no doubt chosen the song just so he could say those lines.

"_And I know you're not into all that. I heard your lyrics I feel your spirit. But I still talk that CAAASH. Cuz a lot W.A.G.S wanna hear it. And I'm feelin like Mike at his Baddest. Like the Pips at they Gladys. And I know they love it. So to hell with all that rubbish_," And Eames finished, quickly sucking in a deep breath, as he had been running out towards the end.

"Would it be stupid to say, Mr. Eames, that that was actually quite impressive?" asked Arthur honestly, feeling strangely warm all over, as he poured the coffee into two cups.

Eames smile was ridiculous. "Extremely so," he purred, and Arthur raised an eyebrow, but approached anyway, putting the coffee he had made self-consciously for the Forger on Eames' desk.

As Arthur made to go back to his own desk, Eames suddenly grabbed his wrist, yanking him back towards him. The sudden movement spilt some scolding coffee onto Arthur's wrist.

"Ouch!- Eam-" Arthur started, indignant, but Eames continued to pull Arthur down until his face was close to his. Too close for comfort.

"_Would you be my love, my love, Would you be mine. Would you be my love-"_ Eames crooned softly into Arthur's ear, and the warm breath on his cheek raised goosebumps. It took a matter of seconds before Arthur's brain kicked into action, and he leapt back, twisting his wrist free from Eames' hold in one sharp movement, and then, because he might as well do the job properly, slamming Eames bodily into the desk and pinning him to it with his elbow.

"Argh! _Fuck_ Arthur! What the hell are you doing?" Eames cried angrily, struggling against Arthur's vice-like rip that had him face first on his desk.

Arthur controlled his breathing before speaking. "I would apologise, but Eames, you really should know better than to take me by surprise," he said coolly, releasing his grip and stepping back.

Eames frowned up at him, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince, "well, your reactions are getting slow then, 'cause if you'd been trying I wouldn't have got past the second word."

Arthur turned away back to his own desk, hiding his expression, because his own mind hadn't found a decent explanation as to why he'd delayed yet either.

"2 hours sleep, remember?" he said loudly, trying to convince himself as much as Eames.

"Yeah, yeah- whatever," Eames muttered, disgruntled.

Eames seemed a little put-out for the next 10 minutes or so, and although Arthur tried to do some work- the _silence_ was bloody distracting now, thanks to the fact he'd got so used to Eames providing constant background noise.

Arthur sighed, and leant back in his chair- surveying the other man, who was glumly skimming through his IPod.

"Eames- what are you doing?" he asked eventually.

Eames didn't look up. "Playing Tetris," he mumbled grumpily.

"But you're crap at Tetris," said Arthur, brow furrowing.

"I _know_," Eames whined, and cast the IPod aside, flinging himself onto his desk, arms over his head.

Arthur raised a single eyebrow.

"Eames..." he started with a sigh, and when he got no response, he pressed on. "Eames- you really are being overly dramatic- but if it makes you happy, you can play me another few songs-"

"Really?" Eames asked doubtfully, lifting his chin onto his arm and looking extremely forlorn.

"Yes you asshole- so just do it before I change my mind," Arthur told him impatiently, trying not to smile at the outrageously happy grin that slowly spread across Eames' features.

"Right- you're on. Don't worry, you won't regret this," Eames said gleefully, reaching for the IPod again.

"Yeah well- we might beg to differ on that one," Arthur muttered, more to himself than to Eames, and logged off his laptop with a flourish.

The next song started with a simple guitar solo, something easy and classic, and Arthur instantly liked it though he'd didn't know it- despite his better judgment. He watched, faintly amused, as Eames began strumming some imaginary guitar on his lap.

"You're getting the chords wrong," Arthur told him instinctively.

"And how would you know _that _darling?" asked Eames, his voice low. His hands stopped strumming, and _fuck it_, Arthur realised he'd just given away another piece of personal information Eames would find a way to use against him.

He tried to shrug nonchalantly, but Eames saw past it, of course, and smirked but said nothing. He went back to the imaginary strumming.

"_Love is the answer,  
>At least for most of the questions in my heart<br>Like why are we here? And where do we go?  
>And how come it's so hard?"<em>

He really was very good at singing- and it was, frankly, really rather sexy in that deep, husky British accent- especially when his long fingers were moving so intricately, playing impossible notes on a fucking _guitar_, and how his eyes were half-closed-

Arthur clamped down on that idea with lightning speed before it developed further and forced it out of his mind.

"_And all of these moments," _Eames was already on the second verse._  
>Just might find their way into my <em>_**dreams**__ tonight," _he emphasised the word with delight, meeting Arthur's gaze. Arthur raised an eyebrow- which clearly said- 'if the relevance of this song to our career path is supposed to impress me Eames, you have failed abysmally.'_  
>"But I know that they'll be gone<br>When the morning light sings,"_

Arthur didn't quite know why, but an uncomfortable sensation in his gut told him that something was a little wrong.

"_With only two  
>Just me and you,"<em>

And Arthur was painfully aware of the fact it _was_ just him and Eames in the warehouse, and the sensation intensified.

"_Yeah, it's always better when we're together  
>Mmm, we're somewhere in between together,"<em>

And Eames had his back to Arthur now, dragging out his the spin of his chair, almost as though he didn't want to meet Arthur's eyes, and his voice was softer and quieter and less cocky and ridiculous, and _fuck-_ _Was Eames trying to tell him something?_

And after the chorus the instrumental dragged on for _thousands_ of seconds- and Arthur was glad for the music, because if it stopped now- he knew they would be sitting in a _very_ uncomfortable silence. Eames had stopped the guitar, and now was playing the piano, albeit a little half-heartedly.

Arthur held his breath- because he knew this guy _must_have another verse- because these sorts of things _never_ end on an instrumental- and how much worse could it get?

Eames stopped spinning, and when he looked up he was grinning again, waggling his eyebrows-

"_Hey now, and when I wake up,  
>You look so pretty sleeping next to me"<em>

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head in exasperation- but it felt more like relief, because _Christ_ he had never been more grateful for a sexual reference from Eames in his entire life.

"Don't even think about it," said Arthur roughly when the song stopped, and he coughed pointedly to clear his voice.

"Ah- but Arthur I do, and I can't help it. You really are very pretty, you know...The song is by a certain Jack Johnson by the way," and the playful banter was back in Eames' voice, as he leant over the IPod, though it didn't sound quite so joking as before.

Arthur tried to keep his features composed.

"Here- if the idea of being simply 'pretty' offends you..."

And Eames leant back again, indecently splaying his legs, and Arthur forced himself not to look- because this man was some _serious_ concoction of bad jokes, sex, brutal fighting skills, sentimentality, The Unknown, and general inappropriate behaviour. He was fucking unbelievable.

The song started- another guitar backing track- was he doing this on _purpose?_ – and Eames began the imaginary strumming again, closing his eyes and nodding his head in a somewhat ridiculous way. He played the tune in a completely over the top manner- whistling along.

Arthur stifled the chuckle. Eames was trying to make him laugh – and he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he could.

"_My life is brilliant"_

"If you don't shut up soon it won't be for much fucking longer," Arthur told him, but it was with so little menace he almost sounded fond. _Fucking hell_.

Eames didn't seem to notice, just chuckled, and continued playing. Arthur tried to drag his eyes away from those unfairly nimble fingers, twisting and sliding along some imaginary instrument. _Jesus._

"_My love is pure,"_

And Arthur wanted to make some snide remark about that, because the way he'd seen Eames shamelessly eyeing up attractive women, hell- attractive _men_, was certainly not _pure:_ but for some reason he didn't, because it felt...inappropriate. Eames sounded too sincere.

"_You're beautiful. You're beautiful.  
>You're beautiful, it's true." <em>And when Eames gave him a painfully honest smile- Arthur had no _fucking_ idea how to react. Because they didn't train for you shit like this in the Army._  
>"I saw your face in a crowded place,<br>And I don't know what to do,  
>'Cause I'll never be with you. "<em>

And suddenly memories flooded back to him and he momentarily stopped breathing- Eames _had_ to be doing this on purpose. His stomach clenched in a knot, and he glanced up from his desk at Eames, who was nearly facing him on his slow chair spin- his eyes still closed- expression... one of concentration.

The first time he'd met Eames had been in an airport. JFK to be precise- which was _always_ fucking 'crowded'. Cobb had already met Eames and informed Arthur of his invaluable skills. It was Cobb who'd forced Arthur to come with him to meet Eames getting off his flight from England, and bring him back to base. They had been waiting for nearly an hour on the sofas in the Arrivals Lounge, as the plane had been unexpectedly delayed. Finally, when the doors had opened, Cobb and Arthur had pushed themselves through the waiting crowd, watching people begin to trickle through the doors- families, couples, businessmen- all rather pale skinned. Arthur had smiled at that.

He had suddenly spotted a tall, broad man stride into the Arrivals lounge, a scruffy suitcase over his shoulder- an even scruffier suggestion of a beard across his jaw. He looked tired, haggard, and at the same time- and Arthur could tell from the way the shirt rolled to his elbows, exposing near ridiculous muscles, and the swirling outlines of tattoos- completely able to take care of himself. The man surveyed the waiting crowd- and when his blue eyes came to rest on Arthur, a shadow of a small, gentle smile flickered across his features.

For some reason- Arthur didn't look away.

But then the man's eyes widened as his gaze darted briefly to the simple sign Arthur held rather half-heartedly, where he had scrawled EAMES in black marker. A sly, suggestive, and ridiculously confident grin spread slowly across the man's face, and he began to make his way towards them. And the moment was gone.

"Please tell me it's not _him_," Arthur had hissed under his breath to Cobb as the man approached- willing, willing this attractive British man with enough sudden self-assurance for the whole of his tiny home country to _not_ be 'Eames'.

"Eames- pleasure to meet you darling," the man said lazily, holding out his hand for Arthur to shake. Arthur's eyes narrowed at the endearment- but Cobb chuckled, clearly trusting this strange man, so he shook hands for politeness and had tried not to think about how warm and large and rough skinned his hands were, and about the fleeting smile.

Back in the attic, Arthur closed his eyes briefly- because _Christ_ he remembered, and if Eames _wasn't_ doing this on purpose- life was full of too many _fucking unfair_ coincidences.

Eames had stopped singing, stopped humming- and was observing Arthur from his chair- face concerned.

"You alright?" he asked with uncharacteristic softness in his voice- Arthur's stomach twisted again.

"He sounds like he's swallowed a load of helium," he replied as coolly as he could manage, gesturing to the IPod.

"Yeah- I'm not sure this song does him any justice," Eames replied with a secretive sort of half-smile. Was that some other hidden message? Arthur thought with sudden maddening frustration. What the hell was going on?

Eames leant over and turned off the song- mid-warble. Arthur was undeniably grateful.

Until the silence descended. It hung in the air, the unsaid words, the suppressed feelings, the fierce protectiveness and loyalty that was a little too much for just friends, and of course the tension. The never-ending sexual tension that Arthur decided to ignore.

"Ah, now Arthur- don't be so melancholy- it really doesn't suit you." Eames chided fondly, and Arthur shot him a withering look.

"Have you finished now?" he asked bluntly.

Eames smiled again, and it wasn't suggestive or crude, just a little sad. He nodded.

"Good," said Arthur gruffly, but his heart wasn't in it in the slightest.

In fact, he felt a little empty.


End file.
